‘I’m not yet changed.’ Annaliese the maid went off to fetch coffee. A vase of lilies gave off a boozy smell. ‘Gosh, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I’d given you up for dead.’

‘As I had you.’

I smiled, and in turn he smiled so warmly I knew it was the right thing to have come.

‘Please,’ he gestured to the first room off the hall, but at the moment he grasped the handle he hesitated, and I saw the regret in his expression before he opened the door and I could see, immediately, his mistake. Above the fireplace was the Weimar painting. I saw it now for what it was: a masterpiece. Emblazoned in light, it looked excellent here in this room of heavy furniture and tubs of lilies. It made the whole room.

He came closer, so close that I could smell his hangover. He still had that approach: animal, noiseless. ‘Site of all my undoing. Ernst’s never worked it out. The trick. He thinks it’s to do with delicate brushwork.’ He scoffed. ‘He’s always been a philistine. So’s his wife.’ In the bottom right-hand corner it read: Steiner Studio: Weimar, 1923.

‘It’s double, isn’t it? The light.’

‘Most people don’t see it,’ he said. ‘Of course, I was very confused that summer.’

A Japanese shade concealed half the room; there was a woman with a fan on the screen and a black bird with tipped wings. Nearby there was the photograph of us all at the Metal Ball with our paint wearing off and wheeled hats askew. Charlotte looked high, but it was Walter’s expression that surprised me the most. I’d seen this photograph before, but I hadn’t realised how happy he had looked. It must have been at the beginning of the night when we’d all been together. ‘This to me is the Bauhaus.’ He nodded at his painting. ‘Not that.’

The maid brought in the coffee and I sat on the chesterfield. The density of the room reminded me of Walter’s Weimar apartment; a man adrift in treasure. I wondered where Mr Steiner worked. Whether it was the Chamber of Culture, or whether he had worked his way into a more powerful department. Maybe he had traded his paintings with some bigwig Nazi – they would have liked his Völkisch style – and been offered a job. He was ambitious. I knew that. He would have loved the power.

‘So many visitors this week, Mr König.’

‘Paul is an old friend.’

‘Yes, they all are.’ The maid fussed with the cups and saucers before she finally left.

In the shaky pouring of the milk one could see how Walter’s years had been used. ‘How did you find me, Paul?’

‘Irmi works where Ernst drinks.’

‘The Kaiserhof?’

‘That’s right. You don’t go there yourself?’

‘No. That’s Mrs Steiner’s job. Sugar?’